


But For Now, We Shall Be Brothers

by nickysvalentine



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Brothers, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickysvalentine/pseuds/nickysvalentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a simple reason behind why Cailan wants Alistair to stay out of the battle, to stay safe. Duncan knows this, and has agreed that it is the best, the only option they have left. Desperate and dangerous times lie over Ferelden, the clouds growing darker by each day that passed, and as its king, the man who was going to lead the army into battle by tomorrow always thought of his country first. The odds are against them, terrifyingly so, but even then: Ferelden came first. </p>
<p>That Alistair is unhappy with being sent to the tower of Ishal instead of following his brothers and sisters into the fight is no surprise. What is, however, is that he seeks out Cailan the night before the darkspawn arrives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But For Now, We Shall Be Brothers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShepardCommander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShepardCommander/gifts).



The sun had set long ago over the grey lands of Ostagar, but Cailan had yet to find his sleep. It was hard to find, however, and whenever he did as much as lay his head to the pillow, there was an odd twitch in his muscles bringing him back up on his feet. After all, and although his demeanour would tell you otherwise, even a Theirin could be afraid, could be full of fear and sheer terror about what was to come and for Cailan was no fool (contrary to popular belief, mind you), these were the emotions setting him ablaze within. A confession he could never speak of openly; with the help of the Grey Wardens, he had managed to give morale that necessary push. So who was he to tear it down with his bare hands? Maker, he was their king – if he did not believe that the Blight could end tomorrow, would end tomorrow, then who else did? That all would end, and that Ferelden would be free? It was his duty to his country, and to his loyal men to keep his head high. Behind closed doors, however, that was not the case, and it was alright. Perfectly fine. _Human_ , Cailan thought, and with a small sigh exiting through his nostrils, he lit a candle and sat down at his desk in the attempt to go through the plan one last time, or write to Anora. What he ended up doing in the end was listening.

Though the darkness of the night and the tension of the upcoming battle had swallowed his men whole, the king could still hear easy laughter outside, where soldiers had gathered for their last taste of comradeship and beer. Faint were the voices, and he could not make out any specific words, but it still did not fail to bring a smile to his lips. In fact, it also made him long for such a freedom, in which he could sit down and be a simple man. Not a prince being groomed to rule over thousands of people one day, not a king to make decisions that would bring life and death. The responsibility on his shoulders were no heavier for Cailan did not believe in a stern mask – like his wife would carry – but sometimes, he dreamt of, wondered what it would be like to be born a simple man. A son of a farmer, perhaps, leaving home to find his own way in the army. Wielding a sword for a leader he would happily die for, because he lived to do so, because that was what he believed in and escaping all these horrible royal banquets that would always be a bore. This did not mean that Cailan wished someone had become king instead – he quite liked who he was, but in the same breath, he had never known anything else. His world could be compared to a golden cage.

There was a shuffling of feet close to the entrance of his tent, followed by a clearing of a throat which brought him back from his day dreaming. Long fingers rubbed his tired yet restless eyes, elbows pressing upon the rough wood of the desk, as a voice spoke: “Your Majesty, a young Warden wishes to speak with you.”  
Now this, it caught the king's attention at once. Perhaps it was a bit strange for one of them to seek out his audience so late in the night, but complain, he did not. His love for the Wardens was no longer a secret, truthfully, and having them fight by his side was not only a privilege, but a sacrifice of their own. Hearing them out was the least Cailan could do to express his gratitude and thus, he rose from his chair and commanded his guard to send the recruit in.

It was like looking into a broken mirror when Alistair stood directly in front of him. The picture was familiar, known, but just not quite right. Without doubt, both of them shared Maric's undeniable features: the curve of their noses, the setting of their jaws. Even the way their lips moved when they spoke, when they smiled. If one knew that the two men were brothers, they would _see_. It could not be argued with.  
And yet, Alistair was so much different; darker, somehow, his hair not as fair as Cailan's was, nor were his eyes the same colour of blue. Different, as was expected, but Cailan – the eternal optimist – was struck by the similarities. Being raised as a single child could be lonely, after all, and the image of him and Alistair growing up side by side as true brothers lingered in the back of his mind, echoed in his skull like a song never sung. In a way, it warmed his heart.  
“Your Majesty.” A little bow, as was expected. Respect, it lacked Alistair not, that much was sure. The time spent with Arl Eamon and in the Chantry had definitely taught him manners, and from what Cailan knew, the only thing that could prove itself as problematic was his loose tongue. Anora had rolled her eyes and called it annoying, a weakness that would get him killed one day when he first told her about it, about Alistair, about who he was and who he had grown to be over the years. It appeared that this was another thing the Theirin brothers shared: trying to light a situation with witty words lingering on their lips. It had driven Loghain mad more than once before. However, the air around them had grown somewhat thicker with the Warden's arrival, tasted that much more bitter. “I apologise for disturbing you so late at night.”

“There is absolutely no need for that, my dear Warden.” Perhaps such friendly tone was rather inappropriate considering who they were to each other but the king could not help it. It was quite the pleasant surprise, though he did not know what Alistair wished to talk about. But amidst all the distressing thinking he had been doing these past couple of hours, it was a welcome visit. “Was there something you needed?”

“Actually, yes.” There was no hesitation in Alistair's determination, and it spoke of the urgency of the matter. Close to his heart it seemed. Though there was a light, uncomfortable shuffling of his feet, and a quick glance at them, almost instantly, Cailan furrowed his brow. “It is about your request Duncan talked to me about. You wish for the newest recruit and me to go to the tower of Ishal.”

_Ah, I see._ Predictable, truly. Waited for, almost. “What exactly is the problem?” Cailan crossed his arms. He waited patiently for an answer.  
It was admirable, that Alistair had the courage to speak up like this and approach his king in such a fashion. Everyone else might have been sent away with a simple “I'm your king, and you shall follow my orders”, but this, Cailan could not brush aside so easily. Perhaps he should have, should have cast the younger man aside and treated him just like that – another man, his father's bastard, not his half-brother, but it was not within Cailan to act upon such sentiments. He could not find it in his heart to pass up the chance to hear the Warden out, to command him to go...without saying goodbye.  
Another surprising fact about the young ruler: family meant everything.

Alistair was hesitant; the look on his face told the story about a soldier reconsidering his actions, contemplating whether he would regret this later or not. A soldier he was, should have simply taken the order as it had been given him by Duncan, – especially seeing that this was Cailan's personal request – should have not second guessed and should have definitely not sought out his king so late at night, but there he was. And bravely, he spoke up.  
“Well, with all due respect, your Majesty, and not wanting to question your decision”, Alistair began. “I think I should be joining you in battle. One Warden will be enough to light the signal, and I should be there, at Duncan's side. It's just...” A struggle for the right word, lasting seconds. “I _should_ be there.”

There was a simple reason behind why Cailan wanted Alistair to stay out of the battle, to stay safe. Duncan knew this, and had agreed that it was the best, the only option they had left. Desperate and dangerous times lay over Ferelden, the clouds growing darker by each day that passed, and as its king, the man who was going to lead the army into battle by tomorrow always thought of his country first. The odds were against them, terrifyingly so, but even then: Ferelden came first.  
There was no heir. It had proven to be rather difficult, making him wonder if there was a condition to Anora they were not aware of. Five years had gone by since he had been crowned and a son of Theirin blood of his, there was not. It had been enough of reason for him and his uncle, Eamon, to get into a terrible argument about this; about the queen growing older, and her body more tired, that an heir was needed, demandedn and that, maybe, Cailan should search for a different bride who would be fit. Though there had been truth to his words, they did not cause any less anger. But there he was now that night, in a cold tent in Ostagar, no life growing in his wife's belly, but with Ferelden's last chance standing in front of him.  
Alistair's veins harboured Theirin blood. He was Maric's son as much as Cailan was, no matter what evil tongues spoke about Eamon. He was not raised to yearn for the throne, for the crown, and one look sufficed to know that Alistair wanted to be king as much as a cat wanted to be tossed into a freezing lake. Never was he viewed as a threat, never as the evil bastard to steal what was rightfully Cailan's, but now, but tomorrow, he needed to be a prince. Needed to be their last hope.

All this did not leave Cailan's mouth, however. Both of them knew it was the reason behind it all (Alistair was smarter than people gave him credit for, make no mistake – yet another thing him and Cailan had in common), that it was a necessity. That it was crucial he stayed alive, _for Ferelden's sake_ , and, that, at one point or the other, it was destiny. That it would become Alistair's destiny.

Rarely does life let you choose your path. And no matter how much Cailan wished his half-brother could mould his own with his bare hands, he was afraid he needed to force him to walk this one.

So with nothing more than a gentle smile, Cailan said: “We need you, Alistair.”

The other man understood. He might not have been happy about it, but he understood. He always had. And yet, he chose to avoid the matter at hand, as anyone would. “You mean should Duncan fall, the Wardens need someone to guide them.”

“Yes, Alistair.” The little smile grew. “Precisely.”

“Well, then.” _He understood._ “May the Maker watch over you, your Majesty.”

Before the Warden could leave, a name was uttered by the king. His own. “Cailan.” And it caused Alistair to stop in his tracks, and beg the other man's pardon.

“ _You_ don't need to call me that, Alistair. My name is Cailan. And you may refer to me so.”

 

 


End file.
